Restless Hearts (9 page)

The flicker of hope she felt startled her. She'd better be more careful. If she spent too much time with Ted, she might actually start to believe in all those old-fashioned things he so obviously valued—things like family loyalty and happily ever after.

B
y the time she'd wiped the sink for the third time, Fiona had to admit that she was nervous about this impending meeting with her aunt. She glanced out the kitchen window. It was fully dark now, and loneliness seemed to close in on the house as the light went. Surely, if Emma was really coming, she'd be here by now.

Ted had said she would come, and she trusted him. That thought gave her pause. She did trust him. Quite aside from the attraction that flared each time they were together, she liked and trusted him. If he said Emma would be here, then she would.

Crossing quickly to the stove, she turned the gas on under the teakettle. She would treat this visit like a friendly social call, and maybe that's what it would be.

She leaned against the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil, her mind drifting back to those moments with Ted outside Miriam's house. She'd expect, if she were being
honest, that it would be that surge of attraction that demanded her attention. Oddly enough, as powerful as that attraction had been, she found herself returning again and again to the sense of concern that had flowed from Ted.

He had cared that she was hurting. His sympathy had been the real thing, not some facile expression. He wanted to make things right for her, and that was stronger than any mere attraction could have been.

Her fingers curled against the edge of the countertop. Other people here cared about what happened to her—the Flanagans, maybe even Ruth and Susie. And she'd let them in—she'd started feeling for them in return.

That wasn't her way. She'd learned as a child that the best way to protect herself was not to open herself. Then it didn't hurt so much to be shipped off to another foster home at a moment's notice, or to sense that she was the outsider in her father's house.

The old ways of protecting herself didn't seem to be working since she'd come here, but she didn't know how else to respond. Apprehension shivered through her. “What if she opened herself up to these people and got kicked in the teeth for her trouble? How would she deal with that?

A knock stopped the downward spiral of her emotions. Rubbing her palms against her jeans, she went to open the door.

Emma gave a quick glance back over her shoulder as she stepped inside, but nothing was in the alley between the buildings but her buggy.

“Fiona, I am happy to see you.” She shed her
bonnet and cloak, revealing the simple dark dress and apron she always wore. “I am sorry if you have been waiting too long.”

“Not at all.” Fiona hung the cloak over the back of a chair. The kettle whistled, and she turned to pull it off the burner. “Will you have a cup of tea? Peppermint or Earl Grey?”

“Peppermint, that sounds good.”

Fiona poured the tea, then lifted the tray on which she had the mugs ready, along with a small plate of poppy-seed bread that Ruth had brought over earlier. “Let's go upstairs to my living room.”

She'd half expected Emma to protest that she couldn't stay long, since that seemed to be the pattern with any Amish visitors, but Emma nodded. She followed Fiona up the back staircase, her long dress rustling.

“This is nice, having the stairs that come right down to your kitchen. Saves time and steps, ja?”

“Yes, it does.” She led the way into the living room, where the lamps were already on, bathing the room in their soft glow. “I haven't quite finished with the painting up here yet, but the room is livable, at least.”

She was nervous, and that was making her babble. What had brought Emma here tonight? Surely she risked getting into trouble with her parents if they found out.

Emma sat on the sofa, looking around with frank curiosity as she picked up the steaming mug. “This is very nice.” She fingered the afghan that was draped over the back of the sofa. “This is Elsie Schuler's work.”

Fiona had to smile, despite the tension that skittered along her skin. “If I'd known how recognizable handwork is to you, I probably wouldn't have shown you my mother's quilt pieces.”

“The quilt squares.” Emma gave a quick, characteristic nod. “I would like to see again.”

That startled her. She'd have thought Emma would be happy to forget about them.

Fiona crossed to the bookcase and picked up the small dower chest, carrying it across to Emma. “Maybe you recognize the box, as well.”

Emma took it, holding it at eye level for a moment, her eyes bright. “I know it. Our papa, he made one for each of the girls. Mine will go to my daughter one day.” She sat the box in her lap, her fingers caressing it. “He made these with much love.”

For Hannah, Fiona reminded herself. Not for the granddaughter he didn't want to know. Still, that love seemed to show in the precise corners and delicate painting, even after all this time.

Emma opened the lid carefully and lifted out the quilt pieces. She saw what was underneath and hesitated for a moment before picking up the cap and apron. Her eyes flickered. “So many years. I miss her still, my big sister.”

Fiona's heart clenched. “I didn't think about that. I'm sorry.”

“It is not your fault. The memories are good ones.” She fingered the delicate baby gown. “She made this for you.”

“I suppose she did.” Tears stung her eyes, and she
blinked them back. “Why did you want to see the quilt patches again?”

Hannah set the box on the coffee table and turned the fabric squares over in her hands. “If you still want, I will make the quilt for you.”

“Yes, of course I want. But your mother—”

“I will do it at Ruth's. No one will say anything to my mother about it.” Her gaze met Fiona's and slipped away. “You understand, about her illness.”

“I know that you're trying to protect her. I don't want to do anything to upset that.” Her heart twisted at the thought that her grandmother had to be protected from her existence.

“She won't know,” Emma repeated. She smoothed the squares with gentle fingers. “When I was very young, I had a doll, and a tiny cradle my father had made. Hannah—she was one of the grown-ups to me, because she was so much older. But she made a little quilt for the doll cradle.” Her smile was soft. “So I will piece the quilt for you, and think of her.”

Fiona's throat was too tight for words. She reached toward Emma, barely knowing that she was doing it, and Emma clasped her hand in a hard grip. Fiona couldn't be sure whether the tears that splashed on their hands were hers or Emma's, but they were melting the shell that protected her heart.

 

Much later that night, Fiona sat cross-legged on her bed, the dower chest open in front of her. Carefully she
folded the tiny baby dress and tucked it inside, then the apron, and finally the cap.

She closed the lid, letting her fingers stroke the painted designs. Her grandfather had made this for his firstborn child. It didn't take a lot of imagination to picture the love in his face—after all, she'd seen fathers catching their first glimpse of a son or daughter.

Her heart was so full her chest seemed to ache with it. Another image filled her mind. Her mother, a blond, rosy-cheeked teenager, sat making a doll quilt for her little sister, sewing love into every stitch.

Had she felt that love when she'd sewn the tiny dress for her unborn child? Or had it been overshadowed by her sense of being a stranger in a strange land?

Tears spilled over onto her cheeks, and she wiped them away with her fingers. It was too late now, wasn't it, to cry for her mother? To long for something she'd never known?

Through the blur of tears, she saw her past more clearly than she ever had. When she'd gone to live with her father and her stepmother, she'd known that they didn't welcome questions about her mother. If she'd been a different kind of child, the kind who demanded answers, perhaps things would have turned out differently.

She swung off the bed in a quick movement and put the dower chest on her dresser. She was being foolish, crying over something that was long past. She'd go to bed, and things would look better in the morning.

But even when she'd turned off the lights and curled up in bed, her busy mind wouldn't shut down. She stared at the ceiling, where a faint light reflected from Ruth's store next door, facing the thought that had nibbled at the edges of her mind for days.

Her father hadn't had to put her in foster care with strangers. He could have sent her back to Pennsylvania after her mother died, even if he hadn't wanted to return himself.

The Flanagans would have taken her in, no matter what the quarrel was between her father and her uncle Joe. She'd seen enough of their warm, open hearts to know that.

And her mother's family? Her heart twisted. Would they have taken her in or turned their backs? She didn't know. Maybe she'd never know.

Lord
…Her prayer choked on a sob.
I've held back all my life, always afraid of rejection if I got too close. Maybe I've even done the same thing with You. I can't seem to do that any longer, but I'm afraid to change. What if I can't? Please, help me see the way.

She wiped the tears away again, too tired to get up and do something, too restless to seek refuge in sleep. She stared at the ceiling, trying to sense an answer in her heart.
What
…

Something crossed the rectangle of reflected light on the ceiling. She blinked. What had that been? A bird, maybe, flying between the two buildings—would that cause a shadow like that?

She lay still, watching. In a moment, another shadow crossed the pattern of light, and tension skittered along her skin. That was no bird, or anything else that had reason to be between the buildings or in Ruth's store at this hour of the night. That was a human shape.

Ruth, coming in to do some work? She turned cautiously, as if someone might hear her, looking at the bedside clock. It was hardly likely to be Ruth out and about, not at nearly two in the morning.

She slid out of bed, her bare toes curling into the rag rug, and shivered as she reached for the robe that lay across the footboard. Pulling it around herself, she padded silently toward the window. No one could see her, surely, as long as she didn't turn the light on.

Still, she stood to the side of the window, cold with tension, and peered out cautiously. There was the nearest window of Ruth's store—it was the window of the workroom, where the quilts were. If someone were there on legitimate business, they'd put on a light, wouldn't they? The soft glow was that of the dim light Ruth always left burning in the back room, visible only from the side or the back of the store.

She stood, undecided, clutching the curtain with one hand, her feet cold on the floorboards. She leaned forward, pressing her face against the pane. Her eyes must be growing accustomed to the faint light, because she could make out objects in the narrow passageway between Ruth's store and her house—the old-fashioned
rain barrel that stood beneath Ruth's downspout, some boards the carpenters had leaned against the wall.

And a figure. He was mostly in shadow, but she saw the slight movement. On its heels came a sound, the faintest tinkle of breaking glass. Barely audible, it shrilled an alarm in Fiona's mind. The police—she had to call the police.

Afraid to turn on a light, she felt her way across the room and snatched her cell phone from the dresser, taking comfort from its glow. Even as she punched in 911, she remembered what Ted had said. Night calls went directly to him. The thought was oddly reassuring.

“Crossroads police, Ted Rittenhouse here.”

She pressed the phone against her ear. “This is Fiona.” She kept her voice low. She'd heard the glass break. Could they hear her? “Someone is in Ruth's store. I can see them moving around, and there's a person in the alleyway between her place and mine.”

“Stay where you are.” His voice was crisp, authoritative. “Are you upstairs? Are your doors locked?”

“Yes. But the store—they're in the quilt room.”

“I'm on my way. Don't come out of your house until I tell you it's safe. And don't hang up.”

She could hear the sound of the car's motor through the cell phone and realized that he was, literally, on his way.

“Don't worry about me. I'm fine. But all those quilts—”

“Better a quilt than you.” He sounded grim. “I'm almost there.”

She slid along the wall to the window. “I'm at the upstairs window.” A crash interrupted her words, and she realized she was shaking at the violence that implied. In the city it would have sickened but not shocked her—here in this peaceful place it was obscene. “They've knocked something over.”

Several things happened at once. She heard, faintly, the sound of a car. The lookout, if that's what he was, must have heard it, too. He moved, rapping sharply at the window frame.

“They've heard you.” She rushed the words, as if that would make a difference. “They're coming out the side window, three of them, dark clothes, I can't make out their features. Running toward the back of the building. The other one, the lookout, he's running, too.”